As Palo Alto's Jeremy Lin leads his Harvard hoops squad toward victory, an Atlanta promoter launches an all-white basketball league, leading Jeff Yang to ponder the light and dark side of rooting for the race.

It was an announcement carefully designed to provoke the biggest spit-take possible: On Jan. 18, one day after the federal holiday celebrating the birthday of Martin Luther King Jr., sports promoter Don "Moose" Lewis issued a media alert proclaiming his intention to found a new pro hoops league called the All-American Basketball Alliance -- which would distinguish itself from the NBA by allowing as players only "natural-born United States citizens with both parents of Caucasian race."

Those who weren't outraged wondered if the release wasn't an early April Fool's Day prank. But Lewis, reached last week at his offices in Atlanta, asserts that he's dead serious, and that the league's formal debut on the pine is just months away. "We're looking at a June tipoff," he says.

Lewis's claims can't be entirely dismissed out of hand. He's been a sports promoter for two decades, and is the proprietor of the International Boxing Union, a legitimate, if lesser, sanctioning authority that, back in 2003, boasted as its heavyweight champion Shannon Briggs, and has managed to secure ESPN broadcasts of its championship title fights. Meanwhile, an earlier basketball league he founded in 2001, the Global Basketball Alliance (the name remains on the voicemail at Lewis's office), managed to attract eight teams and stage an amateur draft, before folding in April 2002.

"We started as the American Basketball Alliance, and then got a letter from Big Brother in New York," says Lewis. "Apparently, we conflicted with one of the NBA's registered marks. So we changed our name to the Global Basketball Alliance, which was fine because one of our teams was in Mexico City. And we held two seasons of what was basically conventional minor league basketball, but the league just never took off."

Lewis candidly admits that ticket sales were "dismal." "You have the same problem with all minor-league basketball teams, even the subsidized ones like the NBA D-League," he says. "People ask themselves the question, 'Should I spend $20 to see NBA Lite, or should I sit in my living room, drinking beer and watching 500 HD channels on my big screen TV?' I know my answer to that."

Pondering a way to get butts into seats, Lewis took a cue from the headlines. "You look at the papers and you see that Middle Americans, they're having a tough time. Their houses are in foreclosure," he says. "They need a good, wholesome, affordable distraction, and they're nostalgic for genuine American entertainment. And I thought to myself, remember when basketball was real basketball -- none of this 'five steps to the hoop, palming the ball' stuff? Remember Pistol Pete and Larry Bird? Where's that all gone?"

The answer, Lewis surmised, is that it disappeared when the NBA became dominated by street-ball players and foreigners -- turning white Americans into minorities in the league, just like "white, native-born Americans" are becoming a "minority of the U.S. population."

"The thing is, people embrace things they can identify with," he says. "One billion Chinese can relate to Yao Ming -- and that's who they want to see. Now you've got millions of Americans who, I think, want to see players and a style of game they can relate to. We all want to root for our own kind -- it's just human nature."

Colors on the court

Of course, much of Lewis's language is, bluntly speaking, a screen for the most insidious type of racism imaginable -- the type that denies itself while simultaneously claiming injury from a historically victimized population. When he uses the term "our kind," it echoes the bristling, preemptively hateful phrase "your kind" -- as in, "We don't like 'your kind' 'round here." When he says that the NBA is full of uncouth, showboating brawlers ("Would you want to go to the game and worry about a player flipping you off or attacking you in the stands?"), he's putting family-friendly context around a subtext that's rooted in white fear of a black planet.

But it's hard to argue at least one of Lewis's points -- that we tend to cheer on people who resemble us -- and a roundup of some of the biggest Asian American sports fans I know didn't even try.

"There's no doubt that when I see an Asian face on the field of play, I'm suddenly more interested," says Brian Yang, a Bay Area-bred actor/producer and hoops fanatic who now divides his time between New York and Shanghai. "We grew up loving Bird, Jordan, LeBron. But when Yao Ming came along -- seeing an Asian player on the court, especially as a star, stirs the senses in a different way, because we ethnically identify with that person."

And more than just sports are at stake, points out Bernard Chang, a comic book artist and illustrator who in his spare time plays point in a competitive rec league and coaches a team of six-year-old aspiring hoopsters. "We live in such a visual society these days, that any symbol of recognition is critical," he says. "Many would say that it shouldn't matter -- and, yes, in a perfect world it wouldn't -- but the fact is, you can't discount the importance of seeing a 'familiar face'" -- especially when it's up on the Jumbotron, in an arena full of screaming fans.

That's because in the U.S., athletic skill defines perceptions of social status like no other area of achievement. "Keep in mind that for many people -- both men and women -- sports define masculinity," says Albert Kim, former senior editor for Sports Illustrated. "The implicit message [of the lack of Asians in sports] is that Asian men just aren't as 'manly' as black or white men" -- something that turns out to have real social, political and even economic consequences. After all, how many otherwise unqualified ex-athletes have we elected to higher office? How often do sports metaphors get used in boardrooms (and, uh, bedrooms), carrying with them the explicit implication that benchwarmers and sideline boosters are also-rans in life and love -- not just on the field or court?

Hoop dreams

Carrying a community's dreams on your shoulders is tough enough. Being the proxy for an entire race's manhood, as absurd as it sounds, is a responsibility one wouldn't wish on anyone. And yet, the search for that individual -- the avatar of Asian American athletic fantasies -- continues, most recently landing on a player who in many ways epitomizes the challenges Asians face in breaking into the big leagues of professional sports, while presenting the best hope yet for overcoming them.

In his senior year of high school, Jeremy Lin, the Bay Area-born son of Taiwanese immigrants, took the underdog Palo Alto Vikings to a 32-1 record, and then to a shocking upset victory over the nationally ranked Mater Dei Monarchs in the state Division II championships, scoring 17 points and garnering unanimous accolades as Player of the Year by every influential publication in California sports (including the San Francisco Chronicle). Yet upon graduating, the number of scholarship offers he received from the NCAA's Division I powers could be counted on a closed fist.

"Coaches, scouts and recruiters have to be willing to be color-blind in their evaluation of players," says ESPN anchor Michael Kim. "But you have to wonder if they'd fairly judge a 6-foot 3-inch, 175 pound Asian guard with a similar talent and skillset as a black or white player. And in the case of Jeremy Lin, it doesn't appear as if they did."

Which means that Lin ended up going to his backup school, Harvard University -- an academic powerhouse, but a basketball backwater. For most talented but frustrated hoops hopefuls, that might have been the end of the story. Lin simply did what he'd done at Palo Alto High: Took a team that had been written off as hopeless and put it on his back. By his junior year, he was the only player in the nation to rank among the top 10 players in his conference in every major category -- from points to rebounds, assists, steals, and blocks, to field goal, free throw and three-point percentage. This year, he's been even better, leading to suggestions that he might be the first Asian American to be drafted as an NBA first-round pick since Rex Walters, the hapa Japanese star for the University of Kansas's Jayhawks who was drafted 16th in 1993, played eight seasons in the NBA, and is now coach for the USF Dons.

Lin himself doesn't want to speculate on his pro potential. "I just want to help Harvard win games, and hopefully, an Ivy League title," he says, noting that the expectations of his community are a motivator, but also a distraction. "I'm humbled and honored by the attention I've received -- but right now I'm focused on our team and getting better each day. There'll be time to think about this later."

Lin's fans aren't as patient. They obsessively track his stats, watch YouTube videos of his highlights, debate the high and low points of his game (pros: great basketball IQ, complete player; cons: a 'tweener without a true position, has a funky jumper), and repeatedly assess and reassess his likelihood of NBA success based on every pundit's postgame comments.

"Jeremy has a legit shot at the pros -- albeit a long shot, like from half court," says Steve Chin, an Albany-based journalist and Web producer, and a longtime board member of the Bay Area's Ohtani Asian American basketball program. "But it would mean a lot for the community if he made it. It's uncharted territory for Asian Americans -- to play pro ball in the modern era. He would become an instant role model for Asian American athletes. I'm rooting for him."

And so are thousands of other Asian American fans, who've recently been flocking to games decked out in red -- a hue reflecting both Harvard's crimson and the color believed by Chinese to be a symbol of luck and prosperity.

Sports, in black and white

It's ironic that even as Asian Americans are hanging their hopes on the promise of a single player breaking through to the NBA, Don "Moose" Lewis is pinning his league's potential on getting Caucasian Americans to turn away from it -- and he thinks that potential is huge.

"We're filling a niche. You're Asian and you want to see Asian players succeed, right? And white Americans want to see white players succeed -- it's just the way things are," he says. "It's no different from boxing: You see Caucasian fighters dubbed the 'Great White Hope' all the time, from Rocky Marciano on down, and where's the backlash against that?"

Lewis publicly professes innocence about the racially divisive nature of his venture -- "I have a problem with how media types have exploited and sensationalized what we're trying to do," he says -- but having begun his sports promotion career in professional wrestling, he's eminently aware of the power of controversy to get butts out from living rooms and into arenas.

And truth be told, if the best part of sport is its ability to unite us across divisions -- Jeremy Lin says that, like many of us, he grew up idolizing Michael Jordan and "would've done anything to emulate him" -- its dark underbelly has always been the use of gutter stereotypes, false dichotomies and racist and jingoist urges to sell itself.

You see it in the chants of fans at games -- even playing in the high-minded Ivy League, Lin has been the target of racist catcalling ("Go back to China!" "Open up your eyes, ch*nk!"). You see it in the marketing of teams (hat tip: Washington Redskins!). You even see it in the us-against-them ubernationalism of the Olympics.

Lewis is just being more ... candid, if you will, about what he's trying to do. When pressed about his intentions, he openly affirms that -- like most sports promoters -- his allegiance isn't toward any race, nationality or color other than green.

"There's the opportunity to make some decent money here, and this is how we're doing it -- we've been talking to several TV outlets about turning this into a reality show, where you follow the first season of the AABA, and at the end of the year, a team of AABA all-stars plays a team of black minor-league basketball all-stars," he says. "If that's successful, in our second season, we might launch an all-black league and have the champions of the two leagues compete. The kicker is the name we've come up with: 'Snowball vs. Bro-ball.' Heck, I think we'll fill up arenas just on the concept alone."

PopMail

In the course of writing this column, I outreached to some of the most fervent Asian American hoop fans in my social network. Some of them are players; some, strictly watchers. Some follow sports for a living, others, simply out of passion. All of their responses were interesting and insightful enough that I wanted to share the full "transcript" of their thoughts. But given the space limitations of my column, I've moved that virtual roundtable to the frontier wasteland of my personal blog. Check it out here.